


To Sleep Perchance to Dream

by Craftnarok



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, and more talking in the dark because apparently that's my favourite thing, black sails mmom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 02:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7148252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Craftnarok/pseuds/Craftnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Silver has never been a good sleeper, waking up at the slightest disturbance, and it's particularly tricky on a ship crammed full of noisy men. It turns out that difficulty sleeping is something else he has in common with Flint. This is what happens when his inability to sleep sends him wandering the ship two nights in a row.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Sleep Perchance to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> She lives! I'm back. Finally, finally, I have something to contribute to the Black Sails MMOM. As always, a little idea got way out of hand and these damn pirates and their 'do me and then let's talk about it' eyes jumped me and now it's far longer than I intended, but I can live with that. Thank you to Young John Silver for your encouragement with this!

It was truly astonishing the way that Captain Flint could sleep anytime, anywhere, seemingly at the drop of a hat. Silver had wondered at it before, having let himself into Flint’s cabin unannounced on more than one occasion to find him unconscious despite there being situations developing beyond his little sanctum which required his attention. Silver’s unannounced intrusions had begun in part because he knew it irritated his captain. He had long since resolved himself to the fact that, no matter how much respect or responsibility he gained, deep down he would likely forever be the same irreverent little shit he always had been. The intrusions had continued, however, because Silver found that those moments when he managed to catch Flint unawares told him more about the man’s state of mind than a dozen conversations ever could. Flint was so very careful in how he presented himself for so much of the time; he could be so shuttered and guarded, even with Silver, even now their differences had been largely reconciled and Flint’s deepest secret laid bare. There was something so precious about those scant seconds of open expression when one caught him off guard, and to find him truly vulnerable in sleep was a more valuable opportunity for observation still.

Silver supposed that years of experience in the Navy had been responsible for Flint’s napping prowess. He had begun to wonder just how long he would have to spend in close quarters with almost a hundred other men before he learned to do the same. It was a product of his own youth, perhaps, that had him waking at the slightest disturbance. To be sure, he could sleep in uncomfortable places, or cold places, or on a gnawingly empty stomach, but his mind seemed to feel a constant low thrum of anxiety whenever he closed his eyes. He could repeat over and over in his head that he was fine, that he was safe, that nobody would harm him here, but the sense of danger was too ingrained. There had simply been one too many rude awakenings by people keen to move him on, or to relieve him of what little he possessed by way of wealth, or with intentions far worse than that, once or twice. He tried not to dwell too long on those times though; there was nothing good to be gained by reliving them.

Silver was lying in his hammock, the gentle sway of the ship lulling him to that soft place just between waking and sleeping, where dreams intermingle so subtly with reality. His mind was drifting from images of Flint lying motionless in his cot, seemingly unconcerned with whatever fresh hell happened to be brewing beyond the hull of his ship, towards memories of places where he himself had tried to find relief from the hardships of life in the dark embrace of sleep. He knew what it meant to seek sleep at every opportunity, beyond tiredness, beyond necessity, to a point where it became a desperate cloying need to have one’s mind silenced, one’s pains snuffed out, even if just for a little while. He understood what that felt like, and he couldn’t begrudge Flint his escape, nor what he imagined to be the only place now left where Flint could visit _her_. Or perhaps, for that matter, _him_. There was something sacred about those waking dreams where one could visit the dead; converse with them, hold them, feel loved by them once more. On those occasions where Silver’s intrusions had found Flint truly sleeping, and not simply feigning as he was also wont to do, he had taken care not to wake him. It was difficult with an unwieldly metal protrusion in place of a foot, but most often he was successful, and his reward was the opportunity to gaze on Flint unobserved for a few long moments, and to wonder what he might be dreaming of. It happened less often now, the focus of the war giving Flint a drive which left less time for wallowing introspection or hours alone in his cabin, but Silver knew he had not quite shaken the habit yet. 

A sudden loud snort off to his left had Silver jolting back to full wakefulness, his heart hammering unpleasantly. He looked around, half a dozen or so other men visible to him in the low light of the hold, many others in the darkness beyond them, lying heavy in their hammocks and swaying softly in time with one another. Now that he was properly awake once more it was difficult to ignore the low chorus of snoring and the creaks of the ship’s hull, and the air felt stifling around him, sweat prickling on his neck and sticking his hair to his skin. With a quiet sigh Silver scrubbed a hand over his face and swung his legs over the side of the hammock. Howell had long since given up trying to force him to remove the false leg at every opportunity, settling for throwing him a disapproving look every once in a while when he caught Silver rubbing his leg around the straps or clambering into his hammock with the bloody thing still attached. This was part of the reason why he left it on though; had he taken it off he would not be able to easily escape the sweltering, claustrophobic space of the hold without waking up at least a dozen other men who, despite their genuine respect and fondness for him, would not take kindly to being woken by his cursing and clattering.

And so after pulling on his boot Silver pushed himself slowly to his feet, one hand on a wooden beam for balance as his poor stump expressed its unhappiness at being asked to bear his weight again after so short a time, without being allowed to rest. Once he felt steady, he made his way gingerly between the hammocks, fingers trailing over anything solid around him that might offer him support should the ship cant particularly hard. Fortunately the waters outside were calm and he made it to the stairs without landing in anybody’s lap or tripping over his own foot.

As he made his way out onto the deck he tipped his head back, breathing the cooler air deeply and skimming his thumbs across his neck to unstick the sweat damp hair there, before tying it back into a loose pony tail. There was a gentle breeze up here and as it caressed his skin he felt immediately calmed and untrammelled; if only he could sleep up on deck. Once upon a time he wouldn’t have cared what people might think, and he might have balled his coat up to serve as a pillow and made a bed in a quiet, hidden corner where the breeze alone could reach him, but those days were past him now. It wouldn’t do for the ship’s quartermaster to be seen sleeping up on deck like a vagrant or a stowaway. Sometimes it was the little things which he missed, the small freedoms which were denied to him in his new position. The sorts of limitations which came alongside power had been quite unexpected. Deciding to make the most of the breeze before he inevitably had to head back down to his hammock, Silver climbed up to the quarterdeck, his fingers trailing along the cool wood of the railing, still damp with sea spray despite the relative warmth of the night. Somewhere on deck he knew the men on watch must have noticed his arrival, but he kept his back to the mast, not in the mood for conversation, climbing the stairs to the stern deck and walking until he could lean his elbows on the rail and look out into the night.

The moon was the barest sliver, on its way to being new, and without its competing light the stars seemed to burn a dazzlingly bright path across the sky. Silver had never known which constellations to find where, or how to apply them to navigation, but he would never tire of looking up at the sky and drawing constellations of his own imagining. There a shape which looked something like a bird in flight; there a launch, an oar cutting a swathe through the starry surface of the water below it; beside the moon an hourglass, the lower bulb close to full. Now that he considered it, the shapes he saw did tend to correlate somewhat with the situations in which he found himself, but perhaps it was better not to dwell on that, searching for some hidden meaning or message. A superstitious man he was not, nor overly prone to deep introspection, if he could help it, but it was occasionally worth firmly reminding himself of that fact. Fanciful paths of thought were often rather tempting, particularly when one found oneself on unfamiliar ground, but they were not necessarily helpful.

So deep in his own thoughts was he, his eyes staring unfocussed at the reflections of the stars on the gently undulating water, that Silver almost jumped out of his skin when a familiar figure appeared at his side.

 _“Christ!”_ he exclaimed, as Flint came to stand next to him, resting his own elbows alongside Silver’s on the rail.

Flint snorted softly. “Sorry,” he said, sounding rather more amused than contrite. He linked his fingers together in front of him, leaning forwards to peer down between his forearms towards the water.

“What are you doing up here?” Silver said, looking askance at Flint, unwilling to give him the benefit of actual eye contact as a sort of childish punishment for successfully taking him by surprise. 

“I could ask you the same question,” Flint replied.

“So you could, and yet I asked you first,” Silver said, staring resolutely at the crescent moon.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Flint said, “and I thought I heard you come up here.”

Silver frowned. “How the fuck could you have heard me from inside your cabin?” he said, finally turning his head to look directly at Flint, his brow furrowing.

“You’re standing on my roof,” Flint said, his mouth twitching, “and your gait is rather distinctive nowadays. A ‘thud, step, thud, step’ does tend to belong to you and I heard it climb the stairs and cross over my head.”

Silver twisted his mouth in annoyance, but Flint only smiled gently, shrugging. “Well you did ask,” he said.

“Since when do you not sleep, anyway?” Silver said, shifting the focus back onto Flint. “Last time I checked you had a preternatural power for slipping into unconsciousness whenever you felt like it.”

Flint twisted his fingers together, looking out across the water. He was quiet for a short moment, seeming to consider his answer before he spoke. “You know, it’s a strange thing. I find I can lie down in the most chaotic of moments and fall asleep without effort, but once things quieten down, once I find myself trying to settle in for a full and proper night’s rest, I toss and turn and sleep eludes me for hours on end. It’s maddening really.”

Silver wasn’t sure what to say to that little revelation, so he simply hummed in acknowledgement.

“And you?” Flint said.

“I rarely fall asleep so easily,” Silver replied. “It’s bloody stifling down there surrounded by the men. And Dooley snores.”

Flint laughed. “If the worst comes to the worst, you could always plug your ears with wax,” he said.

“I suppose I could, or tie myself to the mast so I don’t smother him, though it seems rather drastic. It’s only Dooley, not a chorus of Sirens,” Silver replied.

Flint gave him an odd sideways look, which Silver ignored. It was the same look Flint always levelled at him when he said something that took him by surprise, and Silver was frankly a little put out by how often it still seemed to happen. Although perhaps it was ultimately to his advantage that Flint continued to underestimate him. He wondered what his captain saw when he looked at him now. Was it the feared and respected quartermaster of his crew? Or did he still see the opportunistic young ‘cook’ who had first joined them what seemed like eons ago? Perhaps it was both simultaneously.

As the silence stretched out between them and Flint continued to shoot him sideways glances, Silver sighed. “Yes, I know The Odyssey. No, I won’t tell you how. It’s a long story,” he said, and looking up at the stars he considered a change of conversation. “How much do you know about the constellations?” he asked.

The abrupt change of topic seemed to give Flint pause for a moment, before he said, “A little; enough to navigate by. Why?”

“Just wondering,” Silver said. “I once met a man who was convinced that you could tell the future by looking at the stars, if you only knew how to read them. He wove quite the compelling argument.”

Flint snorted derisively. “Yes, I’m sure. Rather like seeing one’s fate in tea leaves, or the twists and turns of a life laid out in the lines of one’s palms. It’s been my experience that those who profess to hold such knowledge tend not to distribute it free of charge.”

Silver tutted, looking at Flint out of the corner of his eye and suppressing a smile. “Such a cynic, Captain,” he said. “You know better than thousands of years of magic and mysticism? Do you imagine you know all of the secrets of the wide world?”

“I imagine applying the bare minimum of logical reasoning for half a moment would be enough to unravel most of them,” Flint said. “Please tell me you’re playing devil’s advocate,” he added. “I’m not sure I could cope with having to reassess my opinion of you yet again.”

Silver huffed a laugh, but he continued, "Ah, but Nāvikan's particularly bright tonight, and he’s pointing his sextant at the waning moon. Do you see?” Silver gestured vaguely at a cluster of stars off to his left. “That means we’re heading for a sea change. Perhaps you will have to reassess me after all."

"That's not even a real constellation," Flint said.

"Says who?” Silver retorted. “You've been around, Captain; seen and done all sorts, I'd wager. You're telling me you've never heard of Nāvikan, ‘the navigator’? It was a merchant from India who told me about that one; a very interesting fellow. He sold me a tonic he swore would grant me nigh unmatchable powers of persuasion, and for a very reasonable price too. Granted, he told me his mother was a lost princess and his father was a powerful god shortly after, but still."

Flint snorted. "You're so full of shit," he said.

Silver grinned. "Perhaps, but I couldn't bear the alternative. Imagine if I were dull." He twitched an eyebrow at Flint, before turning back to the water, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, the tang of the sea palpable in the air.

“I have rum in my cabin, if you wanted to sit and share a drink,” Flint said after a long while, and Silver thought there was something tentative in his voice which he could not quite place.

Turning to lean back against the rail, Silver looked at Flint and offered him a genuine smile. “Thank you, but no. I ought to go back down. I’ll never fall asleep if I don’t actually lie down and try.”

Flint nodded, looking down at his hands.

“Another time though,” Silver added, tilting his head to catch Flint’s eye. “Goodnight, Captain.”

“Goodnight, Mr Quartermaster,” Flint said with a small smile. “Try not to smother Dooley; he is one of our more capable hands, after all.”

Silver laughed. “I’ll do my best,” he said, and he pushed off the railing at his back and made his way across the deck and down the stairs. One of the men on watch called out a greeting to him as he made his way towards the door that would lead him back into the bowels of the ship, and he smiled and raised his hand in return. He was still acclimatising to having so many people be so desperate for his good favour and acknowledgement. The thrill of the power was one thing, and though he had never needed to be well liked it was a status that nobody could fail to enjoy, but there was a heavy weight of expectation tied to it that made it feel as though he was constantly playing a part for a rapt audience. Mostly it came easily, but there were still moments when he missed the invisibility that came with being no-one.  

As he made his way slowly back to his hammock and clambered carefully into it, Silver considered the fact that Flint had been playing his part for some ten years straight. Captain Flint: infamous, feared, and very much _someone._ He had seen the mask, seen behind it, and perceived the toll it had taken on him; the agony, the sorrow, the isolation. He suddenly realised something else, however: just how deeply exhausted Flint must be. The bone deep weariness of never feeling able to relax and simply be, to constantly have to adjust and readjust your mask so that nobody ever saw the real you behind it; that was what Flint had lost along with Mrs Barlow. Perhaps he ought to have accepted that drink after all, for Flint’s sake if not his own. He sighed softly. Perhaps tomorrow, he thought as he settled back and closed his eyes.

 

***

 

The following day passed quickly, a hundred and one demands on Silver’s time meaning that before he knew it the sun had long since set and his left leg was thrumming gently within the tight confines of his bootstraps, as it was wont to do after a day on his feet. He had barely seen hide nor hair of Flint all day and he was beginning to wonder where the man had disappeared to. It was strange, he considered, how quickly he had come to expect Flint’s presence nearby, to crave his attention. He had spent such a long time looking out only for himself, quite happy to navigate the world alone, but suddenly he found himself enjoying the company of a partner in crime. Quite literally. It was a little unnerving, truth be told.

As he had sat down to dinner, Silver had briefly caught sight of Flint across the mess, but he had vanished as quickly as he’d appeared, and several of the men seated near Silver were trying to cajole him into regaling them with a story, so he had no opportunity to go looking for him. Some hours later, stories told, food eaten, and drinks drunk, Silver found himself back in his hammock, gently swaying with the ship and trying to quieten his mind enough to sleep. Once again, however, the night air was warm and close down in the confines of the ship, and at least four different men were snoring loudly nearby. Silver wasn’t sure how long he had been lying there in the claustrophobic dark; perhaps as little as half an hour, or maybe three times that, but his irritation was only growing by the minute. Remembering all of a sudden Flint’s offer of a drink the previous night, Silver immediately sat up and swung his legs out of the hammock. Anything was preferable to this. If Flint was asleep then he would simply head back out on deck for some fresh air as he had the night before, but if he was awake then a drink shared in a cabin free of sweaty, snoring sailors was a very agreeable prospect indeed.

Making his way up towards Flint’s cabin was a slow business; Silver’s leg slowed him down at the best of times, but the night was pitch black and he was trying not to wake the whole ship by clattering his metal leg against barrels or cannons or whatever the fuck else was lying hidden in the shadows just waiting to trip him. He hadn’t bothered to fumble about in the dark for his right boot either, so while his bare foot made feeling out his path a little easier, it came with the serious risk of painfully stubbed toes. When he finally came to a stop outside of Flint’s door he was relieved to see soft orange light creeping out from beneath it; he was most likely still awake then, and the journey had not been wasted. Silver raised his hand to knock but, considering for a moment, he instead reached straight for the handle.

Opening the door and stepping inside, Silver had barely gone two paces before he stopped dead in his tracks, stunned by the sight that greeted him. Flint was sprawled in his desk chair and, though the high table top largely obscured Silver’s view, there was no mistaking what was happening. Flint’s knees were spread wide, one hand gripping the arm of his chair, the other wrapped around his cock and, until half a second ago, stroking languidly up and down the length of it. His eyes were heavy-lidded and his mouth looked wet and flushed, as though he had been biting his lips.

There was a beat of silence as Flint registered Silver’s presence and his eyes widened, and Silver stood transfixed, his eyes on Flint’s hand, his own hand gripping the door handle tightly, knuckles white.

“Oh,” was all Silver managed to say, after a moment. His brain seemed to be firing off an infinite number of thoughts at once, none of them particularly comprehensible or helpful, and none of them making their way towards his mouth to serve as apologies or excuses. Absurdly, the one thought which seemed to rise above the clamour of the rest was that Silver had somehow never realised that Flint was a man like any other and that every time he had flung himself into his captain’s cabin without warning there had been a chance that he would walk in on something like this. It seemed quite obvious now, and he could feel the hot flush burning up his cheeks to the tips of his ears at the realisation.

After what was probably only a few seconds, but felt far longer, the silence was broken as both of them spoke at the same time.

“I couldn’t sleep-“

“Don’t you ever knock?!”

Flint was hastily tucking himself away in his breeches, pulling his shirt front down to cover his unfastened buttons and leaning forwards, his hands clenching as he spoke.

“I’m sorry,” Silver said, avoiding Flint’s gaze, his hand still firmly attached to the door beside him. “I couldn’t sleep and I thought…last night you offered that drink and I just wondered, but…you’re busy, I’m…” he trailed off lamely, clearing his throat.

Flint was staring at him, colour high on his cheekbones. “Yes, I was busy,” he said, his voice slightly high and breathless, and with an impatient gesture towards the door he added, “So feel free to leave at any time.”

Silver cleared his throat, his mouth feeling very dry. “I-yes, of course. I’m sorry. I’ll leave,” he said, turning to go, but as he made to step back through the open door he found himself pausing. “Unless…” he said.

And there was that initial tension again; the silence so thick and overbearing that you could almost hear it. Silver could feel his heart skittering against his ribs and he felt slightly sick with the sensation.

“Unless?” Flint said, when the silence stretched uncomfortably, his voice hesitant and wary. “Unless what?”

 _Yes, quite, John. Unless what, you fucking idiot?_ Silver thought. He wasn’t quite sure what had prompted him to say it, and he didn’t know what exactly it was he was offering until it was done. After a moment’s pause, Silver pushed the door shut in front of him, considering for a further moment just how stupid and suicidal it might be to slide the bolt across before he did it anyway. He took a breath and turned back to face Flint.

“Well,” he said, “I’d really rather stay up here than go back down to my hammock, and unless you would truly rather I left, I could still do with that drink.” He swallowed thickly. “And I, well, were I to see more of the same…I can think of far worse spectacles to be a party to.”

Flint’s eyes narrowed, and the little crease between his brows deepened, as it always did when he was thrown by something. Although, Silver thought nervously, the furrowed brow also happened when Flint was preparing to work himself into a rage, so best not get too complacent yet.

Finally, Flint spoke, still in the quiet, hesitant voice which it seemed only Silver was permitted to hear. “Are you asking to watch?” he said.

Silver’s lips twitched into a smile in what he thought personally was a rather impressive display of daring, given Flint’s unpredictable and volatile nature. “It does rather sound that way, doesn’t it?” he said. “Would you be entirely averse to the idea?”

Flint’s eyes were roving across his face, searching out answers to some unasked question. As he looked back to Silver’s eyes, he said, “I think, perhaps, I’d need that drink first.”

Silver let out a heavy breath, more relieved than he would admit that it looked like he might yet make it out of the cabin alive. He had very little desire to have his throat slit by his enraged and unexpectedly libidinous captain; there could be little dignity in dying at the hands of a man who was half-dressed and hard. Gesturing to the chair in front of the desk and raising his eyebrows in a silent question, Silver waited for Flint to invite him to sit, which he did with a silent gesture of his own. Settling into the chair, Silver’s nostrils widened slightly; he could have sworn the air smelled of sex.  Or perhaps his mind was just playing tricks on him. Either way, it was somewhat distracting.

Flint was watching him intently, looking as though he still wasn’t entirely sure what was happening or why he was allowing it to happen, and frankly Silver was privately wondering the same things himself.

“So then,” Silver said when Flint made no further move, “the drink?”

Flint seemed to shake himself out of his reverie, his lips parting in a silent _‘ah’_ before he reached down and retrieved a bottle from within one of his desk drawers, along with two cups which he filled, sliding one across the desk in Silver’s direction.

“Are you always so well prepared for drinking with company?” Silver asked, reaching forwards to pick up his drink.

“I often drank with Mr Gates,” Flint said. “The second cup was originally for him, and I suppose I never saw any good reason to get rid of it, luckily for you.”

“Please tell me you never did _this_ with Mr Gates…” Silver said, nodding vaguely in the direction of Flint’s crotch, where he was suddenly acutely aware that his breeches were still unfastened behind the long hem of his shirt. The question was intended largely in jest, but he was just the slightest bit perturbed by the thought. 

Flint levelled him with the sort of stare that might send lesser men running for the hills, and said, “No, I did not. And there’s still time for me to change my mind about doing it with you. Whatever ‘it’ is.”

Silver snorted into his drink, but he offered a genuine smile when he looked up again and met Flint’s gaze. “Apologies,” he said. “I’m just a little…I don’t know what I am, really, but were I better at sleeping then I might think this was all happening in a dream.”

“And do you often dream about barging in on your captain in compromising positions?” Flint said, raising an eyebrow and looking for all the world as though he felt very pleased to have taken back some control of the situation.

Silver smirked. “Only very occasionally,” he said. “More often I dream about barging in on a shirtless and sweating Billy, but alas, one must make do with what fortune offers.”

“You’re a brazen little shit,” was all Flint said in reply, but there was definitely something alarmingly close to fondness beneath his words. Silver buried his face in his cup again to avoid having to contemplate too hard what that might mean. He still wasn’t quite used to such displays of open good humour from Flint; not directed at him, at least.

“Why don’t you sleep?” Flint asked him, sounding genuinely curious.

Silver cleared his throat, wondering just how much of a sob story his captain was looking for, or how much Silver would feel comfortable offering him. Perhaps just a snippet of the truth.

“I, uh, spent a lot of my youth in the sorts of places where it was a good idea not to sleep too deeply. If you weren’t aware of the people around you, even whilst unconscious, then there was a real chance of waking up to unsavoury situations. I was getting better at sleeping while surrounded by the men until this happened,” he said, gesturing at his false leg. “Since then…I suppose it just reawakened some things I thought I’d moved past.”

“Unsavoury situations?” Flint said.

“Yes, that’s what I said,” Silver replied. “Not tales for tonight though.”

Flint nodded, looking into his cup before draining the last of his rum. He did not put the cup down, however; holding it tightly between both hands he rolled it backwards and forwards, watching the movement, a nervous gesture that made him once again look so very human.

Taking pity on him, Silver finished his own drink in one gulp and set his cup on the desk, leaning forwards and resting his elbows on the warm, dark wood. “Well then,” he said. “Would you prefer me here, or can I come round there?”

Flint hesitated for a moment, swallowing, before he said, “I think you probably ought to come closer.”

Silver pushed himself to his feet, moving around the desk and reaching to lift Flint’s empty cup from his hands. He set it on the desk and then leaned back against the wood, fingers wrapped around the edge, false leg crossed in front of his good one, affecting a casual stance in an attempt to cover up the fluttering nervousness he suddenly felt, but he wasn’t sure quite how convincing it was. Flint was watching him closely, his fingers twisting around each other now that the cup had been removed. Silver had noticed Flint’s propensity for twiddling his fingers and twisting his rings or fidgeting with anything within reach when he was unsure or deep in thought, and once noticed he could not unnotice it. Honestly, he wasn’t sure that Flint was even aware that he did it, but he was loath to point it out and risk losing one of the very few honest cracks in Flint’s usual mask of inscrutability. Still, he felt compelled to reach out and close one of his own hands over both of Flint’s, stilling his movement and finally bridging the gap between them.

Flint looked down at the place where their hands met and, after a moment, turned one of his hands palm up to grasp Silver’s. It was the smallest of movements, but with it came a subtle yet palpable shift in the atmosphere between them, and Silver felt his pulse jump again.

Flint’s hands were warm and broad, and they felt just slightly rough with callouses. He trailed his fingers across Silver’s palm, his thumb rubbing over the back of his knuckles, watching intently as he mapped out the ridges and lines of Silver’s hand by touch.  

“Do you still want to?” Silver said quietly, worried that Flint was avoiding looking at him because he had changed his mind.

Flint looked up, just the hint of a smile on his lips, and nodded. “I think, though,” he said, “it would only be fair if you returned the favour.”

Silver huffed a laugh. Now that Flint had said it, he wasn’t sure it could ever have gone any other way. “I suppose it would be,” he said.

With a squeeze of Flint’s hand he let go, raising an eyebrow and moving to undo his trouser buttons, but Flint leant forwards and pushed his hands aside.

“May I?” he said, pausing, his fingers hovering over Silver’s top button and only touching when Silver nodded his assent.

Flint’s fingers worked quickly on his buttons and Silver put his weight onto his hands and pushed off the desk slightly as Flint tugged his trousers downwards until they sat precariously low on his hips, held up only by the renewed press of his arse against the edge of the desk when he sat back again. Silver licked his lips, looking up from his unbuttoned fly to Flint’s eyes once more, his stomach giving a little flip at the look Flint was giving him in return, and from so very close by.

“After you, Captain,” he murmured, raising his eyebrows and nodding in the direction of Flint’s lap.

Flint let out a breath that might have been just a little bit shaky, though Silver would never have mentioned it, but there was still the trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he leant back in his chair and slid his hand under his shirt and into his breeches.

Silver quickly followed suit, insinuating his hand beneath his shirt and sliding it slowly up the length of his cock, already halfway hard from the anticipation alone. Lifting his other hand from the desk, Silver took hold of his shirt hem and made to lift it up, meeting Flint’s gaze as he did so.

“My view’s a little obscured, Captain,” he said, nodding again at the bottom of Flint’s shirt, to which Flint’s only reply was that damned half smile with too many teeth. However, he took hold of his own shirt and lifted it out of the way, tucking it up against his belly, as Silver did the same.

Silver let out an unsteady breath of his own at the sight before him. Flint looked, well, quite glorious. There was a coating of fine, soft-looking orange hairs on his stomach leading downwards to where they coarsened and tangled around the base of his cock. _His cock_. That was something else entirely. Silver wasn’t sure which was more thrilling: the sight of Flint’s cock just a few feet away, hard and flushed and damp at the tip, or the twist and slide of his fingers around it as he worked his hand slowly up and down.

Swallowing hard, Silver looked up at Flint’s face again and found his captain’s eyes raking over him, from his face down to his steadily moving hand and back up. He looked ravenous; like a man who had gone for far too long without the simple pleasure of seeing someone put on a show of unabashed self-enjoyment for his benefit. And, Silver thought all of a sudden, he probably had. Resolving then to make it worth the wait, Silver slowed the movements of his hand, stroking more languorously, twisting more unhurriedly, and letting his head tilt back so that his neck stretched and his hair fanned across his shoulders. Groaning softly he bit his lip and let his free hand tighten around the edge of the desk, his fingers still full of the material of his shirt, nails scratching over the wood. He looked down through his eyelashes at Flint and was gratified to see his efforts already having the desired effect.

Flint’s lips were parted, wet from his tongue, and his breathing was heavy, already on the verge of panting. His eyes were heavy-lidded, but they still burned keenly as he watched, Silver shivering as he stared back, holding Flint’s gaze. Silver’s hips twitched upwards involuntarily and he had to close his eyes as he drew in a shuddering breath; god, it was going to be over too soon. It might have been a long time for Flint, but Silver had hardly made a habit of this sort of thing recently either.

_“Look at me.”_

Silver’s eyes snapped open again and he found Flint still watching his face intently. His voice sounded rough and low, but even in that moment there was an inescapable thread of authority woven through his every word that was difficult to disobey, at least without redirecting rather a lot of focus from elsewhere, which Silver had little intention of doing. Still, though, there was something he could do to claw just a little power back and he knew it.

 _“Captain…”_ he moaned, and was he not riding so very close to the edge he might have felt a thrill of amusement at the ease with which he could read Flint and have him groaning and quickening his hand, the knuckles of his free fingers tight and bone-white against the dark wood of the chair. As it was, he simply felt a thrill of pleasure that had his hips canting again and his breath hitching.

Soon, too soon, he knew he was reaching the point of no return, and judging by Flint’s laboured breathing and fast, slick strokes, so was he.

“Captain,” Silver said again, and Flint’s eyes shot back up to his once more, so depthlessly black in the low, warm candlelight illuminating the cabin. “Are you close?” he said. “I’m so close…”

Flint opened his mouth, but he seemed to catch any words before they passed his lips, instead flicking his tongue out to wet them and nodding, his eyes still fixed on Silver’s. His chest was heaving under his shirt and the hollow of his throat was slick with sweat. Silver imagined he painted a rather similar picture, his clothes beginning to feel stifling and sticky, the humid night air and closed windows doing nothing to lift the sweat from his skin. Curling his bare toes against the cool wood of the floor, Silver pushed his shirt higher up his stomach with his free hand, dragging his fingernails in a long slow trail up his hot skin as he did so and, as he saw Flint’s eyes follow the movement and heard him fail to stifle a low groan, he sped up his hand and fell across the edge.

The sight of Silver spilling over his own hand was all it took to push Flint after him a few quick strokes later, his eyes never leaving Silver, and barely the softest noise passing his lips. For a few long moments they stayed silent, catching their breath, before Flint pulled his shirt up over his head and used it to wipe his hand and belly clean and passed it to Silver to do the same. As Flint took the shirt back and tossed it into a corner of the cabin, Silver fastened up his trouser buttons again and situated himself more comfortably on top of the desk, his legs dangling clear of the floor.

“Well then,” Silver said with a smile some moments later, when Flint had made no move to speak. He sincerely hoped Flint wouldn’t now retreat into one of his unfathomable and tempestuous moods, chased down the path of dark thoughts by awkwardness and regret. Knowing what he did of Flint and his past, the little fragments of it to which he had been granted access, he imagined it was entirely possible. It seemed, however, that luck was still on his side as Flint’s mouth twitched into that small smile, which was becoming more and more something Silver revelled in eliciting.

“Well then,” Flint said in return. “That was…not how I’d imagined spending my evening, though I’m certainly not complaining.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Silver said.

“I am curious though,” Flint said, looking down at his hands. “I had led myself to believe…I thought that you and the Queen’s daughter…you seem to be close to her, and I thought, perhaps, there was something there. This would seem to suggest otherwise,” he said, gesturing between them.

Silver smiled at Flint’s faltering tone and his slightly surprising choice of topic, given what had just happened between them. As long as Silver had known him, however, Flint had never been what he would call predictable, a fact which the past quarter hour or so had reaffirmed quite unequivocally. Unexpected subject or not though, Silver wouldn’t lie to Flint about this. He only hoped the truth wouldn’t disappoint him too much.

“Madi. She is quite extraordinary, is she not?” he said. “You aren’t wrong, but I’ve never personally understood the idea that a man must confine himself to a narrow range of interests, as it were. Is it so difficult to believe that I could see something alluring in both of you simultaneously?”

“No, I suppose not,” Flint said, and to Silver’s relief he did not look particularly put out by the thought.

“And besides,” Silver added, “as different as you might look from one another, you actually have rather a lot in common. You ought to speak to her more often.” 

“I speak to her a lot,” Flint said, leaning forwards to reach around him for the bottle of rum which still sat on the desk.

“About something other than leadership and strategy, I meant. She has a great love of books too, you know,” Silver said, filching the bottle from Flint’s hands as soon as he removed the cork, taking a swig with a grin.

“And apparently similarly questionable taste in company,” Flint grumbled as he wrested the bottle back and raised it to his own lips.

They sat together for a long while in comfortable silence sharing the bottle, Silver hooking his metal foot behind the heel of his good leg and swinging them back and forth in the space between the desk and the chair. He took a childish delight in toeing at Flint’s shins ‘quite accidentally’ every once in a while, Flint scowling half-heartedly at him each time it happened until he huffed, leaned forward, and grabbed Silver’s foot, dragging it onto his lap and holding it in place. Flint wrinkled his nose at the sight of Silver’s grubby sole, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘urchin’, but his thumb was gentle as it rubbed ever so slightly back and forth over the bone of Silver’s ankle.

Finally, when the bottle was a good deal less full than it had been, it was Flint who broke the peace of the quiet once more. He seemed to hesitate for a moment after opening his mouth, but then said, “Will you stay?” in a low voice that seemed to be already half an apology if he had unwittingly stepped across some unseen boundary.

Silver was quick to smile to reassure him that the suggestion was a welcome one, even if his answer was to be a refusal.

“I won’t,” he said, “but it’s nothing personal. Truly. I struggle to sleep in my own hammock; I’m quite certain I wouldn’t sleep at all crammed into that tiny bed with you, much as I might wish it were otherwise. Besides, it might not do for the men to find me creeping barefoot out of your cabin tomorrow morning. That’s how salacious rumours get started, you know.”

Flint smiled back at him and nodded, to his merit almost entirely concealing the flicker of disappointment that crossed his features, despite knowing that Silver was quite right.

“Alright then,” Flint said, as Silver extricated his foot and pushed himself to his feet, his hands rearranging his clothing just in case he looked too unmistakably dishevelled. “Take a candle with you,” Flint added, passing one over. “I’m amazed you didn’t trip and break your other leg coming up here without one.”

“What can I say?” Silver said. “I’m just lucky. You ought to rub me some more and see if it’s contagious.”

Flint shook his head. “Go to bed, Mr Quartermaster,” was his only reply, but he was definitely smothering a smile.

Silver walked over to the door and slid the bolt across as Flint began blowing the remaining candles out around the room. As he opened the door, Silver threw a “Goodnight, James,” over his shoulder.

From the darkness came a soft “Goodnight, John,” and Silver smiled to himself again as he closed the door behind him.

 

***

 

Silver still woke up to the grunts and snores of the men at least another three times before dawn came the next day, but he found he didn’t mind so much. The urge to toss something heavy in the direction of the offender was rather pleasantly side-lined by the need to throw his arm across his face to smother the stupid grin that crept up unbidden every time he awoke and remembered what came of being a light sleeper. Lucky indeed. He wondered if the stars could have predicted that.  


End file.
